


That's The Tragedy

by dismalspacenoodle



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: (which still isn't an official tag?), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - No Homophobia or Any Of That Shit, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aromantic Asexual Christine Canigula, Bisexual Jeremy Heere, Flowers, Hanahaki Disease, Hanahaki Michael, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Michael, Italics, Jeremy is oblivious, Magic, Marijuana, Medical Inaccuracies, Michael Pines So Hard, Michael's Mom is the Hero We Deserve, Multi, Nail Polish, Platonic Relationships, Recreational Drug Use, Repression, Rich Is A Good Bro, Rich is a beaut, Ultra-Gay Michael Mell, a gross overuse of italics, a preposterous amount of explaining for a trope, aka the squips are completely gone, good shit, hanahaki is a normal but rare disease btw, in this 'verse, no one really has it but there's fucking flowers coming out of people, only referenced tho, ooooo the Weed, sorta?, you could hold a gun to my head and i wouldn't be able to tell you why i wrote this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-05 06:02:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11571861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dismalspacenoodle/pseuds/dismalspacenoodle
Summary: Depression, anxiety, an unhealthy dependence on someone who now had no reason to be around him? Michael didn’t know her.--Michael struggles with his own feelings in the wake of the Squip the only logical way: problems? What problems?This definitely works and isn't hurting him at all. He's already got eight years of hiding issues under his belt. What can go wrong?





	1. intro

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from the 1934 release of the Scarlet Pimpernel, when Percy's brother-in-law responds to a story by saying, "So that's why you ceased to love her. What a tragedy," and Percy says, "Ceased? I shall love her till I die. That's the tragedy."

Michael Mell was pretty okay, if he did say so himself. Tip-top mental health. Depression, anxiety, an unhealthy dependence on someone who now had no reason to be around him? He didn’t know her. He had a good, healthy lifestyle and anyone who says differently can go fuck themselves on their “drink lots of water and talk about your feelings!” philosophies. H*ck (and he censors for the _children_ , doesn’t anyone think of the fucking children?), he had no reason _not_ to be okay. He knew that being taken over by a sentient chill pill _had_ to be traumatic as all hell, and, well, everyone he knew had just recently been through that.

All except him.

And God knows how thankful he was for that; by some miracle he had been exempt from the shitstorm Jeremy had inadvertently started (or had Rich? Whatever, no one was really to blame), but none of his friends had been similarly spared. They all were forced to deal, in their own ways, with the aftermath of the Squip. Most of them suffered understandably from the complete loss of control they felt at the play—Michael had seen Brooke and Chloe flinch any time either of them accidentally said something together, had noticed that Jake sometimes unconsciously stood without his crutches only topple to the ground, and had definitely worried about Jenna’s reluctance to volunteer gossip, keeping a wide distance from saying anything like “I know what so-and-so is doing!”. Christine wouldn’t talk to anyone about what exactly her Squip had said to her to push her towards Jeremy, but it was apparent in the way she sometimes froze, mid-scene, during play rehearsals and turned to someone with a miserable, “I messed up the lines, didn’t I?” and looked like someone had shot a puppy right in front of her if they nodded. Rich, surprisingly, seemed the happiest of everyone, jumping around and excitedly talking about things he could do now that his Squip had “fucked off into techno Tartarus, for all I care. Hey, I can talk about mythology again!” And then there was Jeremy, who seemed determined to pretend that nothing the Squip said or did had affected him in any way, but Michael had known him for twelve years and knew Jeremy like the back of his hand. He didn’t miss the way Jeremy winced whenever he stuttered and still couldn’t look Brooke or Chloe directly in the eyes. Michael knew he would have a Talk with Jeremy eventually, but decided to respect his wishes and leave it alone. For now.

So, yeah, Michael’s friends were trying to heal as best as they could, and his best friend was barely avoiding falling apart. Michael would be their rock, the steady, happy, and calm one, as long as they needed him. He steadfastly avoided thinking about anything that would unbalance him, even a little. He tried to ignore his little meltdown at Jake’s party, which. _God_ , Jake, Rich, and Jeremy were all having separate disasters, but Michael was still stuck in his self-pity spiral? His friend’s house was _burning down_ , and instead of calling the fire department or something, he was content to sit and wait for an easier way out, all because Jeremy had ditched him sooner than he expected. The party, and thoughts about it, should be about what his friends went through, not his own hissy fit.

Sure, the goal was hard to reach, but he had eight years of if-I-don’t-think-about-the-problem-it-might-magically-go-away under his belt, and he knew no one wanted to be bothered by his petulant whining. He was always going to be a shit friend, but. But. If he made himself 100 percent okay, if he focused on only them and their problems and made sure they were doing better, rather than being a _selfish asshole_ , they might not know how shit he was for a while.

And a while was all he needed.

After all, he won’t be the first person to die from choking on ipomoea buds, right? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first chapter is SHORT and NOT GOOD and PRETTY MUCH PURELY EXPOSITIONAL but i pinkie promise my updates r usually longer and better


	2. Michael In The Bathroom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rich Goranski makes an entrance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahah two upd8s on the same day good times this one is 1.8k (im literally so lazy and didn't make it to 2k but it's the thought that counts)

There was a common misconception that Hanahaki presented itself by coughing up flowers. While that was _sort of_ true, it wasn’t like Michael coughed and bright blue petals flew out of his mouth; it was usually triggered by something, first of all, and wasn’t so much of a tickling sensation pressing him to cough but a painful clawing up his esophagus, like a cockroach was crawling up his throat and hooking its legs into the unprotected flesh there. Pleasant, right?

Eight years was enough for him to learn how to mostly suppress it, but the longer he waited, the more blood there was. He learned the hard way that the seven hours at school were way too much for his body to handle when he woke up in the hospital with a tube down his throat in seventh grade. He tried to avoid _that_ whenever possible.

Today, it seemed, Jeremy was determined to make him suffer.

“Michael, dude, Christine sent me a text this morning, I can’t tell if it means she likes me or not,” Jeremy excitedly said, the words tumbling out of his mouth as he dropped his backpack onto the desk next to Michael’s.

 _Smile, Mell_ , Michael scolded himself, swallowing down the tell-tale prickle in his chest. “You two are dating,” he snorted. “She obviously likes you.”

Jeremy refused to be deterred, slamming his phone down on top of Michael’s open textbook. Michael furtively glanced at the clock, praying to be saved by the bell, but— _11:14_ , fourth period starts at 11:17 _—_ no such luck. He submitted, looking at the phone.

**_From: Christine <3 <3 <3 <3_ **

_hey jer!!! are you free to run lines after school?? :)_

Michael pretended to put on a serious face. “Jeremy…”

Jeremy’s leg bounced up and down, and Michael noted with amusement he still hadn’t moved from being seated on the desk to his chair. “Michael, don’t be coy, what does it mean?”

Michael gave a dramatic sigh. “It appears she wants to go over lines for the school play.” Jeremy smacked him on the head as Michael burst into ungainly snorts.

“I can _read_ , y’know,” Jeremy huffed, affronted. The tension had thankfully disappeared.

Michael arched an eyebrow. “Can you?” he questioned mockingly. “Last I heard, when people—especially overly-enthusiastic thespians—say they want to go over lines, they mean they want to go over lines.” The pressure in his chest was building. _Fuck_.

Jeremy shrugged, suddenly looking self-conscious. “I don’t know, Mikey, I feel like I kind of forced her into this. Even after the whole Squip thing, she still can tolerate me?”

Michael’s eyes widened as he absorbed the sudden change in mood, but before he could open his mouth to comfort Jeremy (or spew flowers, at this rate) there was a loud ringing followed by a bang on his desk.

“Mister Mell, Mister Heere, I’m sure that your relationship can wait until _after_ we discuss the Boston Massacre? Or would you rather tell the class the lesson yourself?” Their US History teacher, Mr. Feldman, sniffed before continuing, “I get paid either way, you know.”

“Sorry, Mr. Feldman,” they chorused exasperatedly. Mr. Feldman sniffed one more time before moving to the front of the room to begin class.

Michael snuck a look at Jeremy, who seemed to be engrossed in his notes almost instantly (he was still trying to bring his grades up from when the Squip deemed anything above a B- uncool) and took the opportunity to lay his head on the desk and breathe deeply, forcing himself to ignore the pinpricks in his chest (and _why, God,_ did he have to think of the bug thing, earlier, because now all he could think of was a beetle’s tiny black body forcing its way out of his mouth, like that one movie he couldn’t quite remember. Was it _The Green Mile_? No, that was a swarm of something going _in_. Whatever. Look, Michael wasn’t afraid of bugs as long as they were _outside_ his body, thank you very much.) He didn’t usually get this bad so early in the day, and definitely not from something as inconsequential as a text message. It was getting worse, and fast. _Oh, well,_ Michael thought, because what the hell was he supposed to think? There’s not much he could do.

There was one thing, of course, but he had decided to never _,_ under _any_ circumstances, take that option.

He still had to do something about the flowers right now, though. _Shit_.

He tentatively raised his hand, not used to calling attention to himself during class. Jeremy gave him a concerned look, but Michael shook his head (hopefully reassuringly) and said, “Mr. Feldman, may I use the restroom?”

Mr. Feldman sniffed (again! Did the man have a sinus issue?) and reluctantly answered, “You may, but take the hall pass.” Michael rolled his eyes and grabbed the frying pan that had _This is the hall pass for D-15!!_ written on it in pink sharpie as he made his way out the door.

 _“Mr. Feldman, can I go, too?”_ he heard Jeremy ask through the door, as the teacher replied with a snappy denial because “ _your friend has just taken the hall pass, Mister Heere, you must wait your turn.”_ Thank God.

Michael winced at the loud _bang_ that echoed through the empty boy’s bathroom as he ran into the door, but was more preoccupied with making it to the toilet (third from the entrance, because the door had dropped off its hinges in their freshman year and the school had just fixed it lower, and now no one could see if Michael was kneeling as he vomited flowers or was taking a piss sitting down) and slamming the door shut behind him.

His eyes watered as the buds were forced up his throat and out his mouth, chased by rivulets of blood that flowed unsteadily into the toilet and stained some of the larger blossoms a disturbing maroon color. Preoccupied in his hacking-up-flora venture, he didn’t notice the creaking of the door to the bathroom and a hesitant step in until a voice called out, “Yo, you okay in here?”

Michael shut his eyes. _Fuck_. He pitched his voice higher and squeaked, “Yeah, one-hundred percent okie dokie in here, thanks!”

A moment of hesitation, then, “ _Michael_?”

“Shit,” he swore softly, before returning to the higher-pitched voice (which fucking _hurt_ , by the way, and did not do wonders for his current blood-and-flowers situation) and saying, “Sorry, I don’t know a Michael, come back later!”

“Michael, it’s Rich, and that acting might make Christine wish she had really stabbed herself in _Romeo & Juliet_.”

Michael gave up. “Rude,” he muttered, before flushing the toilet, wiping at his mouth and praying all the blood was gone. Just in time, too, as Rich had been fiddling with the door and managed to open it just as Michael turned to the door. “Hello, Richard Gorpanski, love of my life,” he deadpanned. “I’m so glad you broke into the bathroom cubicle to save me from the monstrous plumbing creature.”

“You _know_ it’s Goranski—“

“Do I?”

“—and there is no way in hell it’s called a _bathroom cubicle_ ,” Rich snapped, and then grinned brightly. “Sorry, I keep forgetting it’s chill for us to be friends.”

Michael awkwardly patted Rich’s arm. “It’s all cool, man, this bathroom cubicle is a safe place for everyone.”

Rich snorted. “I’m sure it is.” The lisp was more and more pronounced the more comfortable he got, and it gave Michael some fuzzy feelings knowing he wasn’t freaking Rich out. Score there, at least. “But, Michael. I’m not dumb, I heard you upchucking in there. Are you sick? Should I call Jeremy?”

Michael’s hand darted out before he could think better of it, grabbing Rich’s wrist effectively halting his effort to grab his phone. Michael winced, letting go as fast as he could, but it was probably too late now. Rich would realize Michael was weird and threw up in bathrooms and grabbed onto people without washing his hands first, which really wasn’t Michael’s fault because Rich was blocking his way to the sink, but then again Michael shouldn’t be throwing up in a bathroom and grabbing people, and now Rich was going to tell everyone Michael was creepy, and Jeremy would realize Michael was creepy, too, and then he’d be completely alone again, and his breaths just kept coming faster and faster and he barely noticed that he had slid to the floor again and was trying (and failing) to brace himself against the stall door, and oh, _that’s_ what it was called.

“Michael? Dude, you alright?” Rich’s worried face hovered above him. “Do I need to call an ambulance?”

Michael giggled hysterically. “It’s called a stall.”

This didn’t seem to make Rich any more secure in Michael’s health as he slowly reached for his phone, saying, “Yeah, Michael, this is a stall. I’m going to let Jeremy know you’re in here, alright?”

“In Heere, ha,” Michael muttered, then froze up, struggling to breathe again, a bud pressing up in his throat. “Don’t call Jer, Rich, please. You _can’t_.”

“Okay, okay,” Rich said amicably, raising his arms in the universal I-am-unarmed-and-listening gesture. “Breathe, dude. Um, in for four, out for four?”

Michael tried to pull in air, but the flowers blocked off his throat entirely. Unthinkingly, he turned and coughed into the toilet, gazing emptily at the blue flowers floating in the water slowly staining pink.

“Um,” Rich said eloquently. Michael froze. Great, now Rich thought he was creepy and weird and threw up flowers and blood in bathrooms. What was next, a porn magazine from 1996 would appear and his mom would tell him the pages were stuck together?

“I’m pretty sure you, me, your mom, and a floating porn magazine can’t all fit in this stall, dude,” Rich said comfortingly.

“I said that out loud, didn’t I?” Michael groaned. Rich nodded apologetically.

“Listen, I don’t think you're creepy or weird, and I know what the, um, flowers mean. I won’t tell anyone,” Rich promised. “It’s Jeremy, right?” Michael nodded miserably. His Pretend-Things-Aren’t-Actually-Happening philosophy had basically flown out the window, at this point. Rich sighed sympathetically. “That really sucks, dude.”

“You’re telling me,” Michael mumbled, breathing heavily. He wiped at his face again (thank God for red sleeves) and stood up, tilting from side to side for a moment before catching his balance and pushing past Rich to the sink, where he finally washed his hands and face.

“Michael, I know it’s not my place to say, but you should really consider the cure, this looks pretty bad,” Rich began, before Michael spun around, nearly growling.

“You’re right, it’s not your place to say,” he hissed, before taking a deep breath, trying to appear calm, and carefully switching on a smile. “I think I managed to get out of Mr. Feldman’s entire class, bro. Freedom awaits in the form of lunch with the squad. Wanna come with me to drop this off at class and pick up Jeremy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this one was a bit more fulfilling. I also hope that me writing this at one in the morning doesn't show


	3. Straight People? In My Squad? It's Less Likely Than You Think.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rich is a panicked mom, Jenna is a panicked gossip, and Jeremy is a panicked... hamster?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any over-use of the words "dude" or "bro" is because i use them like punctuation in my real life and it is Bleeding Through  
> drumrolll,,,,, 2.6k ily all

“Guys, Benny had Hanahaki in grade school for Vicky,” Jenna said in lieu of a greeting. Michael felt vaguely queasy. Rich flinched and subtly looked over at Michael.

Christine looked contemplative. “Vicky in our year or senior year?”

Chloe flicked her on the forehead. “Little kids don’t talk outside of their age group. A year is, like, fifteen percent of their life. Would you talk to someone fifteen percent older than you?”

Jake rolled his eyes. “Chlo, that’s just eighteen.” He yelped and turned red, glaring at a suspiciously-innocent-looking Rich and muttered something close to “keep your feet to yourself.” Other possibilities included “cheap purr fleet of small elves,” but Michael figured the former was more likely.

Chloe huffed, saying, “You know what I mean,” as Brooke patted her sympathetically on the back.

“ _Anyways_ ,” Jenna interjected, “isn’t that a little weird? I mean, they’re still friends, now, but not together. You think he’s still got it?”

“Hanahaki is pretty common in kids, though,” Jeremy noted. “It usually isn’t resolved or anything, it just goes away.”

“I don’t think you can call one in six hundred _common_ ,” Jenna snapped.

“Compared to one in eighteen hundred for people over thirteen? I think it works, Jenna,” Brooke countered.

“I think that’s for over eighteen, hon,” Christine interrupted. “You’re right, though, it basically disappears entirely at middle school and high school.”

 _This is literally the worst conversation ever,_ Michael mentally complained. He couldn’t seem to force any words out—not because he was choking on anything (a welcomed change from the norm), but because he knew once he said something, he would say too much, and completely destroy his life, probably. He was optimistic like that.

“Is _no one_ going to talk about how Jenna called it _grade school_?” Rich demanded. “What year is it? What god damn country do we live in? What alternate universe have I stumbled into where _grade school_ is an acceptable word to say in front of my good Christian boyfriend?”

“Rich, I’m Jewish, you _know_ this, you spent Rosh Hashanah with my family,” Jake said with a long-suffering look on his face.

“Jake, dude, you’re Jewish?” Jeremy yelped, shocked. “Dude, _same_. Can we _please_ trade Bar Mitzvah Angst Stories later, beca—“

Jenna frantically waved her arms around her head. “Hanahaki, Benny, Vicky?”

 _God damn it, just let the conversation die,_ Michael wanted to say. _Hanahaki is more common in children because children have a higher capacity to love wholeheartedly and become completely fixated at the drop of the hat,_ he wanted to say. _No one worries about kids with Hanahaki because children are fickle and it rarely amounts to anything,_ he wanted to say. _Benny’s probably over Vicky because he’s a normal and functional human being,_ he wanted to say. “Benny had sex with Trevor last week,” is what he blurted instead.

“How do you know that?” Jenna whipped her head around to look at Michael, looking a little bit perturbed he knew something she didn’t. Christine appeared similarly intrigued, but less belligerent. Michael shrugged, throat dry, as he tried to think of a convincing excuse other than, _Yeah, there’s an online group for people who previously had Hanahaki and I was morbidly curious to see what I’m going to miss out on when I die later this year_.

Brooke, bless her soul, swooped in and covered his ass. “It’s probably, like, locker room talk, you know? But for gays.” Maybe bless her soul a little less, but the help was appreciated, even as Michael felt his face turn beet red.

“Brooke, _you’re_ a gay,” Chloe pointed out.

Brooke sniffed. “I’m a _pan_ , thank you. You’re the gay.”

Rich waved his hand. “I’m bi, does that count?” Jake quickly pulled Rich’s hand down and kissed his knuckles gently, causing Rich to make gooey eyes at him and lean in to kiss Jake’s forehead.

Michael mimed gagging, even if he was feeling a little too close to real nausea to truly enjoy the embarrassment on Jake’s (and only Jake’s, as Rich was a notorious PDA _fiend_ ) face. It wasn’t fair at _all_ that his friends’ relationship should make him think of what he could never have with Jeremy, but oh, well. The evil god damn _plants_ in his lungs apparently disagreed.

“Does this mean Jeremy is our token straight?” Christine wondered. Jenna sighed and finally sat down, accepting the death of her gossip chain.

Jeremy looked confused for a moment, and then shrieked, “ _None_ of you are straight?”

Christine patted him consolingly on the head as Michael snorted. “Michael’s pretty gay—“

“I noticed _that_ ,” Jeremy pouted.

“—Brooke’s pan, as she just said, Chloe’s got a massive crush on,” Christine paled at the one-more-word-and-you-won’t-walk-out-of-this-cafeteria-alive glare Chloe was shooting her way, “ _someone indeterminate_ , and Jake and Rich are dating.”

“Jake and Rich are _dating_?” Jeremy yelled in disbelief, drawing the attention of a few bored-looking seniors at a table to their left before they looked away, uninterested. Michael banged his head on the table repeatedly, wishing for nothing more than the sweet release of death.

“Damn straight,” Rich boasted, dragging Jake down to kiss his nose.

“How the fuck did you miss that?” Chloe demanded. “They’ve almost had sex on this table at least four times this lunch period!”

“I thought they were just being bros,” Jeremy mumbled. “I don’t wanna be a token straight! I feel like a hamster!”

“Aw, he’s getting grumpy,” Jenna cooed, apparently fully onboard with the new topic. “We should feed him, like, beer, and no-homo greeting cards.”

“Hey, Jenna, if you’re not straight, what are you?” Jake questioned curiously, having pulled away from Rich with both of their noses still intact.

“Beautiful,” Jenna haughtily retorted. Brooke nodded sagely.

“Ah, Jenna, to have both your self-confidence and rockin’ bod,” Michael proclaimed, dramatically throwing himself onto the table in a desperate ploy to hide his face before someone pointed out that he probably looked like he swallowed a bug (and back at it again with the bugs, why did he constantly do this to himself?). Rich looked concerned.

“Michael, would you like to accompany me and my similarly hot bod to the restroom?” he asked.

“Actually, he was just out during fourth—“ Jeremy began, like the beautifully attentive and well-meaning friend he is.

Michael interjected with a swift, “I’d love to,” and followed Rich out, barely managing to hold a smile as “If you cheat on me, I’m cutting off your balls!” chased him out of the room.

 

“Dude.”

“Yeah, I _know_ , it’s just…” Michael trailed off.

Rich shook his head. “I know literally nothing about the flower thing, Michael, but you’re in some deep shit. You were coughing up _blood_. Blood stays inside, bro. Hopefully forever. Spewing it, and flowers, on the regular, is _not good_.”

Michael flinched. “Oh, tell me _more_ about the disease I’ve had since I was eight. I’d love to know what you have to say about it. Please, should I just get over him, too?”

Rich raised his hands hopelessly, obviously trying to figure out what to do before drawing Michael into a hug. Michael went easily, surprising himself and Rich, and was shocked to find he was only a little bit taller than the notoriously-short apparent hugger. He used to be taller than Jeremy, in sixth grade, and lorded it over him every second of the day, but then Michael stopped growing (though his baby fat never really left), and Jeremy shot up in a sudden growth spurt in freshman year. He spent a while being awkward and lanky, but recently became workout-buddies with Jake (who was trying to get back in shape and recover the full, unhindered use of his legs post-fire) and Rich (who was such an aggressively supportive boyfriend Michael was quite frankly shocked he hadn’t decked someone for Jake yet), and _great_ , now Michael was not only thinking of Jeremy’s newly-ripped body, but that newly-ripped body lifting weights and running or whatever the hell people do when they exercise, Michael didn’t know, but some part of him (cough, cough) thought it was hot as hell, and wasn’t it just great that Christine had a free pass to forever ogle at Jeremy’s beautiful face and spend limitless time in Jeremy’s (probably buff) arms and talk about little things and big things and the _future_ with Jeremy?

‘Oh my God, okay,” Michael heard distantly as he slowly came back to his body, realizing he had sort of slumped over onto Rich, coughs wracking his body as he kept his mouth firmly closed despite the insistent press of petals against his teeth. Shit, twice in one hour was _not good news_ , and he would definitely have to tell his doctor about this episode. He carefully detangled his limbs from Rich’s and made his way purely on muscle memory (third stall from the door), dropped to his knees, and forced the flowers out, scrunching his nose up as the sickly sweet aroma mingled with the coppery scent of blood. He sighed, muttering a slow apology to Rich.

“No, dude, not your fault, probably mine, um,” Rich frantically babbled, “I feel like I should call the police? Or your mom?”

Michael laughed, kind of. Well, he gave a wheezing, vaguely amused snort, more like, but he was _trying_ , damn it, and that’s what counts. “Mom, probably,” he scraped out. “Ask Siri.”

He felt Rich awkwardly fish the phone out of Michael’s back pocket and say, “Uh, hey, Siri, call Michael’s mom.”

“ _I don’t see ‘Michael’s Mom’ in your contacts. Should I look for locations by that name?_ ”

“Um, no, cancel.”

“ _OK._ ”

“Call… Mom?”

“ _Calling Mom._ ”

“Oh, thank God,” Rich whispered as the phone rang. She picked up almost right away.

“ _Mikey, what’s going on? Aren’t you in class?_ ” Michael awkwardly tried to cough as silently as possible, getting a weird sense of déjà vu watching the slimy, blood-stained bud fall down into the water with a soft _plop_.

“Hello, Mrs. Mell, this is Rich Goranski, a friend of Michael’s?” Rich tried.

“ _You don’t sound too sure, young man. Why are you calling me from my son’s phone?_ ” she demanded, terrifying even over the phone in an empty boys bathroom.

Rich fumbled with his words a bit, talking slower to avoid a lisp (which, yeah, great job, Mell, you made your friend feel so out of place he’s reverting to behaviorisms forced onto him by a debatably-living, definitely-not-breathing malevolent microprocessor) as he explained, “Michael asked me to call you, he’s sick.”

“ _Am I on speaker?_ ” At Rich’s noise of assent, she continued, “ _Michael, is this about the garden?_ ”

‘The garden’ was their code for his problem, in case he couldn’t bring himself to say it or was with other people. “Yeah, Mom,” he croaked out. “Can you pick me up?”

“ _Of course, honey,_ ” she assured him, concern lacing her tone. Michael hardly ever skipped out of school, despite his reputation, and almost never asked to leave because of health issues. “ _I’ll be at the front office in ten minutes, meet me there and we can take care of this. Rick, was it?_ ” The sound of a car starting up played through his phone’s speakers.

Rich winced. “Rich, but yes, ma’am?”

” _Be a love and walk him, would you? He might struggle a bit, but he won’t say a thing until he passes out._ ” Michael contemplated suicide briefly.

“Don’t expose me like this, Mom, I have hopes and dreams and aspirations,” he lamented, throat still raw and scratchy.

“ _We are going to have_ words _, young man, about knowing your limits, understand?_ ” she scolded. Her voice softened slightly. “ _Do you want me to stay on the phone until I get there?_ ”

Rich looked to Michael for an answer. Michael shook his head. “Michael says it’s alright, Mrs. Mell.”

“ _Alright._ ” There was a beep, and she disconnected.

Rich offered his arm, looking a tad shaken. “Shall we go, my prince?”

 _Okay,_ he meant to say. “God bless you, Rich Goranski,” is what he said instead. Rich blushed.

“I’m just doin’ my job, ma’am,” Rich smarmily quoted.

“Disgusting,” Michael commented. “San Andreas, really?”

“The Rock is my kink,” Rich said, straight faced.

 

Michael waved to Rich as his mom pulled away, nose pressed up against the glass like he was in an early-2000’s blockbuster about moving away and finding a new home and learning to love his new stepdad or something. “Michael, baby, what happened today?” his mom asked, drawing him out of his nostalgia.

“Twice in an hour, Mamma,” he sighed. She _tsk_ ed.

“We should go and see Dr. Minogue, then,” she told him, which meant in no uncertain terms they were on their way to Dr. Minogue.

“Aight,” he conceded, pretending he had a choice in the matter.

 

The rest of the twenty-two minute ride consisted of his mom flipping between grilling him on his day at school, which he had “only been there for half a day, Mom, I threw up fucking flowers during lunch,” and asking him if he had eaten, which, again, he’d only been there for half a day, and threw up _fucking flowers during lunch_. He received a light smack on the head for his language and three peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for his missed lunch.

“That’s excessive, Mom, don’t you think?” he asked, stuffing his face with the second sandwich as he spoke.

“Don’t eat with your mouth full, darling, it’s unbecoming,” she chastised, not taking her eyes from the road. “You might want to check your phone; that Rick kid seemed very concerned about your safety. Also, I’m taking it when we go in to see Dr. Minogue so you can’t ignore her the whole time.”

“ _Mom_!”

“You heard me,” she said, unperturbed. “She’s a psychiatrist and a medical professional, respect her.”

Rather than to dignify that with a response, Michael followed her suggestion and flicked his phone on, and _shit_. He had eight missed messages and four missed calls from Jeremy _alone_. Pushing down the nerves he felt at seeing Jeremy’s pun-based name (they all owed Christine significant thanks for changing it from _jer.is.heere_ ) because, God, he ditched Jeremy in the middle of the day, that’s a shit thing to do, and now Jeremy probably hated him, but oh, well, he supposed, it was a matter of _time_ —

No. Bad thoughts. Just read the stupid texts.

**_From: Jere-bean_ **

_michaellllll_

_michael?_

_michael!!!!_

_michael mellon rich says you went home sick???_

_call me !!_

_can you not call me ?_

_oh my god michael are you dying_

_holy shit you’re dead and i didn’t even go to the bathroom with you_

Well, then.

**_To: Jere-bean_ **

_chill, dofus_

_im not dead ive got a bug_

_ill b back tomorrow aight no biggie_

_(_ _mell.hell sent[chillout.jpg](https://c1.staticflickr.com/6/5512/11496055513_7c05ee004f_z.jpg) )_

**_From: Jere-bean_ **

_did you really just send me a Kermit meme?_

_i cannot believe it is 2017 of our lord jesus Christ (born December twenty-fifth, zero) and this is still happening to me_

**_To: Jere-bean_ **

_youre jewish_

**_From: Jere-bean_ **

_well guess who’s not chillin with blonde beauty up in heaven now?_

Michael snorted, ignoring the knowing look from his mom.

**_To: Jere-bean_ **

_u, still, bc u r a filthy SINNER_

**_From: Jere-bean_ **

_fair enough fair enough_

**_To: Jere-bean_ **

_i gtg buddy doc wants to talk_

That was, of course, a lie, because Michael was still on the freeway and in a car, but, what was he supposed to say, _Yeah, can’t text you, don’t want to risk vomiting in my mom’s car, and today’s been so out of whack it seems like a very real possibility_?

**_From: Jere-bean_ **

_yep yep okie dokie_

Anyways.

It’s not like today was going to get _worse_ , right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally posted this and then edited it like five times aaaaaaa  
> is michael mell the squish yes gay?  
> i wanted to have michael and his mom speak some tagalog but i only know english and i don't want to offend people and get it horrendously wrong. also, i had that actual conversation with Siri to make sure i got it right.  
> also i'm not forgetting christine in her spiel about the groups sexualities; she's not mentioning her own because she's still figuring it out, but is realizing she's on the ace/aro spectrum. she needs More Time to figure it out


	4. Wanna Play Poker?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael fights for... death? His mother is less than impressed. Jeremy tries to Smoke the Marajawana. Rich spills the beans, but not those beans. Prom-related beans. Jeremy and Christine have a moment, but not like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all for the positive response this has been getting it means the world to me ily all

“Hello again, Michael,” Dr. Minogue said pleasantly. “Hello, Ms. Mell.”

Michael’s mom smiled warmly and shook Dr. Minogue’s hand, saying, “It’s wonderful to see you again, Jenny, how’s the new house suiting you?” Michael waved awkwardly.

“Very well, very well,” Dr. Minogue hummed, sitting down at her padded chair as Michael took his usual seat on the edge of the couch and his mom took her leave, never one for a parting “good bye”. Dr. Minogue turned her attention to Michael. “I heard we got ourselves some trouble, hm?”

“Not really _us_ ,” Michael grumbled. Dr. Minogue inclined her head in assent, motioning for him to continue. “I had two attacks in the same few hours, which was weird.”

She nodded agreeably but her eyes were sharp as she spoke her next words. “That’s not it, is it?”

“There were some… other things,” he allowed, uncomfortable.

“Pray tell.”

He fiddled with his hoodie string. “There was a full flower,” he mumbled.

Dr. Minogue winced. “Michael, you know what that means as well as I do.” He shrugged, not willing to admit how much it freaked him out.

“I’ve already accepted it, ma’am.”

“Then you know I am legally obligated to sit you and your mother down, and discuss the cure.” It wasn’t a question.

“ _Discuss_ whatever you’d like, I won’t do it,” he hissed, trying and failing to remain calm. “It’s my decision.”

Dr. Minogue hummed again. “You’re still a minor, Michael. It breaks my heart to say it, but your mother has final say, not you. And before you say anything, I do legally have to inform the right people if you say something like, I don’t know, ‘I’d rather die, and that’s my choice, too,’ and you’ll be put under suicide watch, where you really will not have a choice.”

“You read my mind,” he said wryly. “Listen, can’t you just give me a little more time? I want to finish up the school year, put on the play with my friends, then I’m okay.”

Dr. Minogue sucked in a breath through her teeth, grimacing. “You are a seventeen-year-old boy. You just said your end goal is to ‘put on a play with your friends,’ Michael, you can’t expect me to just put my hands up and say it’s fine. I want you to be happy, first and foremost, and you can’t do that six feet under.”

That was what Michael had always loved about Dr. Minogue: she was blunt to a fault, and never sugar-coated things. Sometimes, though, he wished she didn’t make so much _sense_. He had a pretty rad counterpoint, though, and was fully prepared to break it out. “How am I supposed to be ‘happy’ after the fucking _cure_ , huh?”

Dr. Minogue paled but remained resolute. “Let’s bring your mother in, and then we’ll see who’s happy after the next year.”

  _Jesus._ _Low blow, lady._ “Fine.”

 

Minutes later, his mom was being led into the room, looking worried. “Mikey, what’s going on?”

He shrugged and gestured at Dr. Minogue, feeling like human trash. She sighed and started talking. “Michael has been displaying some rather worrying symptoms. We, of course, have some options on how to make him as comfortable and functional as possible for a while, but we would like to talk about the cure while it is still an option.”  Michael saw his mom stiffen, but nod. “I’ve had a few patients who do decide to be cured, and a few who haven’t, but the final decision is up to you and Michael.”

His mom exhaled. “Michael and I have had this talk, and his answer is still no. I’m afraid I won’t force him to do something like that, even though it breaks my heart to see this happen.”

Dr. Minogue nodded understandingly, giving no sign she agreed or disagreed with Ms. Mell’s decision. “Then I will present you with alternatives.” She reached behind her for a stack of papers. “With the proper treatment, Michael has a few months left wherein he will be able to breathe without assistance. His attacks will likely be more irregular, and won’t require an event to trigger them, though he will still react to some things. You’re going to want to pick up an oxygen tank—I’ll write a note for you, you can pick one up downstairs—for him to use while he sleeps for now, though, and _make sure he doesn’t smoke_ ,” she said, glaring at Michael, then smiling brightly. “From here, you should have a month left for the cure to be safely administered, but after that, we cannot safely put him under surgical anesthesia.”

Ms. Mell nodded firmly, like a soldier going to war. “Alright.” She grabbed her bag and, with a quick thanks to Dr. Minogue, went on her way.

Dr. Minogue looked at him contemplatively. “You’re a good kid, Michael. Think it through.” She then shooed him out with a quick, “Don’t lose your mother!”

 

Michael _could_ think about the car ride home, and all the things he said to his mother, and all the things she said to him. He _could_ think about what they did when they got home, and how hard it was to sleep that night for both of them, but he won’t, thanks. And if he cried an unreasonable amount while watching _Mamma Mia!_ with her, that was his business. (He definitely didn’t, though, and whoever says otherwise is a filthy liar.) He _could_ think about the four fun runs to the bathroom and how absolutely _nasty_ blood tastes, but he didn’t really want to.

Instead, he thought all the way forward to a Hot Pocket Break in after-school rehearsal, where Rich was nervously pacing on the stage as Michael spun the spotlight around the stage from the tech booth in a half-hearted attempt to get revenge on Brooke for the “gay locker room talk” comment. He kept a watchful eye on Chloe, making sure she wasn’t coming to murder him for messing with Brooke, but was otherwise bored as usual. Dustin was mulling around the back, turning people’s mics on at random and causing little snippets of conversation to echo through the mostly-empty theater.

Jenna, oddly enough, was watching Rich intently, tracking him with her eyes in the same way Christine watched people when they had a line right before her. _Huh, weird_ , he thought, and paid no more attention to it, because holy shit, Jeremy was whipping his shirt off with a carelessness that would _definitely_ tear off his wire, and looking directly at the booth. Michael lunged for the microphone, momentarily forgetting that Dustin was at the sound board, and yelled, “Can the striped twink _please_ refrain from tearing off his wire?”

It quite literally blasted through the auditorium, startling Jake and Rich so much that they both fell off of opposite sides of the stage with a muffled _oompf_ , Brooke and Chloe flinching in sympathy. Michael winced. Jeremy looked smug. Christine looked ready to murder someone. The microwave from Mr. Reyes’ room beeped.

“ _Dustin_ ,” Jenna scolded, looking angry, which was, again, weird as hell; Jenna never really cared about what went on in rehearsal as long as she could watch their friends fumble about on stage. (“Honestly,” she confided in Michael once, “their daily lives are as entertaining as a play, anyway, and it’s even funnier on stage.”) Dustin looked suitably chastised.

Jeremy and Christine went back to talking, heads bent together, as Mr. Reyes came out with his plate of hot pockets.

“Listen up, class! I know we’ve been rehearsing, um—“

“The Scarlet Pimpernel,” Christine whispered helpfully.

“—The Scarlet Pimpernel! Yes, I knew that, thank you, Miss Canigula. Unfortunately, budget cuts—“

“We have a _budget_?”

“—and the matter of our small cast has forced us to reassess what is within our capabilities, and we will be performing Hamlet.”

“ _Yes_!” Christine screeched. “Wait, Mr. Reyes, nothing changed? Just Hamlet?”

Mr. Reyes looked triumphant. “Never fear, I have added some things to keep the play relevant for the current audience!” Everyone groaned. “I assume you’ve all read _Ender’s Game_? I’ve created a crossover!”

“Do you ever realize,” Dustin commented, “they are being graded on their ability to act out Reyes’ fanfiction?” Michael snorted.

“’Graded’ is a loose term,” Jenna shot back. “Does anyone here have lower than an A?”

Michael hummed contemplatively. “I think Brooke might’ve been pulled down a letter grade for going out with Jeremy,” he suggested. Dustin nodded.

“Isn’t that, like, illegal?” Jenna wondered.

Dustin suddenly turned a knob to the left, and Jake’s poorly-acted line of, “Hamlet, I know you’re upset about Peter becoming king and marrying Valentine, but that doesn’t mean you can go to _space_!” echoed through the room. “Nice,” he whispered to himself, turning it back to normal.

Mr. Reyes looked exhausted. “Work on your lines! I’m going on break.”

As soon as he left the room, Rich looked at the booth, waving a little, and Jenna pushed Michael away from the spotlight (which, _rude_ , he was in charge of lighting; it was his only claim to fame) and shone it on Rich.

 “Um, I’d like to make an announcement!” he shouted. He looked at Jake hesitantly, who gave him an encouraging nod despite having no clue what was going on. Rich shuffled his feet. “Um, yeah. Jake, I blow you on the reg, please go to prom with me?”

Jake went bright red, but started laughing. “I’d love to go to prom with you, Richard ‘Dick’ Goranski.” He snickered. “It would pleasure me more than—“

“O-kay!” Chloe shrieked, covering Brooke’s ears frantically. “Wanna run the scene again?”

Rich was now blushing, too, but Jenna was cackling like an evil scientist as Dustin and Michael stared at her, bemused. She grinned not unlike a shark and called, “Rehearsal’s over, Chlo, it’s five-oh-two.”

Christine stumbled a bit, trying to speak, and then yelled, “Dustin, can you turn on my mic? I have an announcement!” Jeremy looked a little proud.

Dustin did so, grumbling, “Why am I always the one turning on mics?” to which Jenna hissed, “You never let anyone else near the soundboard.”

Christine clambered over to the risers and said, in a normal speaking voice because _she had a microphone and understood that it makes people louder, unlike everyone else in this fucking room_ , “I’m aromantic-asexual, I think! Um, that is, I don’t have romantic or sexual feelings. For people. Um, and Jeremy knows! And we’re not a thing! So!” She stepped down awkwardly.

There was a silence that felt louder than everyone’s microphone-aided yelling, until Brooke blessedly broke it with a, “Can I take you to my mom’s poker nights?”

Michael tried to laugh, but suddenly everything was underwater, tinged with darkness and muted and he couldn’t fucking _breathe_ , could only stumble out of the booth towards the staff bathrooms right outside the door and take the familiar place by the toilet, but it wasn’t fucking _working_ , he wasn’t coughing anything _up_ , it was just staying and pressing down on his chest, blocking off his air, suffocating him, or maybe it was going to burst out of his fucking chest; maybe that was the sound of his ribs or jaw cracking under the pressure, but he wouldn’t _know,_ because everything was buzzing and silent at the same time, and the only thought circling his head was _does this mean Dustin gets lights and sound?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> michael mell says rad and no one can convince me otherwise  
> also, ummmmmmm its febuary of sr year, prom is gonna be in may, the play is put on also in may, i live in southern california so fuck me if i know how snow works or,,,,,,, when it snows??? but it's not part of this story thanks  
> rereading this u can totally frickin tell i just watched kingsman again but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Author's Note:**

> i don't have a beta and this mess is just edited by me, so i'd highly appreciate any mistakes being pointed out. also please please please leave a comment, because i LIVE for feedback!


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